


Karakoram

by Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: 1960’s, 1964, AU - Mountain Climbers, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mountain Climbing AU, Mountaineering, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-04-13 19:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14118903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee/pseuds/Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee
Summary: “Either way,” Ross whispers, “I made her a promise. I’m a terrible person. There’s too much collateral. It’s selfish. I’m selfish.”“You,” Jim’s hand finds the back of his neck and his mouth the tip of Ross’s nose, “have no idea who you are, how you come across to other people. All your fucking morals. So much stronger than the rest of us mere mortals up here. How much of a stubborn, cynical bastard you are. Your ridiculous heroics.”And then his hand finds Ross’s chest, dead—centre and warm through the layers.“Your heart. Your beautiful mind. Your goddamn eyes. The way you look when we do this.” Jim’s mouth on Ross’s, insistent and soft all at once. “You, Ross. You are the best person I know.”





	1. Chapter 1

_The open road, the path of greatness_

_It's at your fingers_  
_Go be the one that keeps on fighting_  
_Go be the stranger_  
_Just put your foot in front' the other_  
_Crow like a rooster_  
_We are allowed to get us something_  
_Fear as a danger_

_I say_

_Spill out on the streets of stars_  
_And ride away_  
_Find out what you are_  
_Face to face_  
_Once you've had enough_  
_Carry on_  
_Don't forget to love_  
_'Fore you're gone_

_The Immortals – Kings of Leon_

 

****

**_May 28th, 1964._ ** **_Askole village, Baltistan, Pakistan._ **

**35° 40' 59.99" N** **75° 48' 59.99" E**

 

He ducks low, but the doorway to the squat mud brick building is lower still and the beige pakol cap slides off Dwight’s head as he grazes against the frame. He stoops to collect it from the ground, finding himself eye to eye with the young proprietress as he returns to his full height.

“ _Shokh, seikha shokh."_ She speaks quietly _,_ looking up at him from under dark lashes and gesturing for him to come in.

He flashes her a charming toothy smile and flicks his hand through his flattened hair to try and coax some life back into it, suddenly aware that he’s been traveling for days and probably looks like hell. He glances around the dim room, the scant few tables either empty or occupied by solitary older men, but he finds what he is looking for in the corner and his smile grows a little wider at the welcome sight.

Despite the insistences that had come on the phone just weeks before, Dwight would hardly call it a tea house. It’s more wishful thinking than anything else, and he knows that the girl is most likely the eldest daughter of the homeowner turned to making what tiny living she can from opening their family room to visitors to the village and – more recently – the lucrative gem of a thirsty foreigner like himself.

“ _Nis… nis chaa?”_ he asks hopefully.

It’s been ages since he’s spoken any Balti, not since his last trip nearly three years ago now. His work as a doctor means he can fairly adequately fumble his way through most of the Latin languages and his Nepalese isn’t too bad, but none of those come in at all handy here. He feels himself blush as she raises her hand to cover her mouth and hide her laugh at his sorry attempt, nodding and turning away to the metal kettle set on the stove behind her.

The air smells of wood smoke and rammed earth. He can’t help but think it feels more than a world away from the staggering heat and bustle of the airport he’s just left behind at Rawalpindi and the wide sprawl of the half-built new city of Islamabad springing up opposite it just across the plateau. The scene is completed when a wayward goat pokes its head through the still-open door, chased by a pair of dusty-kneed and giggling children. The girl turns and throws a few angry words in their direction, and all three disappear as quickly as they came.

He approaches the table slowly but the occupants are either unaware - or more likely, he tells himself, completely disinterested - in his arrival. Two men sit opposite each other, knuckles tucked under chins and elbows propped on the rough surface as they scowl at the chequered board between them. Dwight watches as the elderly man facing away from him darts a wrinkled hand out and swiftly moves his bishop to take the white queen, tucking it under the folds of his shawl where it pools on the table.

His opponent doesn’t flinch but his dark eyebrows tug a little closer together as he frowns at the remaining pieces. “Nice hat,” he mutters without looking up.

“Thanks,” Dwight smiles. “I thought I’d get back into the swing of things. Embrace a bit of culture. And it’s nice to see you too, by the way.”

It’s been a few months since they last saw each other, but his friend looks the same as he ever does, if a little scruffier than he can reasonably get away with at home. Dark stubble already shadows his jaw and his hair hangs in unruly curls over his forehead.

“You made it alright then?”

“So it would damn well seem.” Dwight drops his cap unceremoniously on the table, easing himself into the spare wooden chair. “Though I’m not kidding when I tell you that bloody bus actually had me praying. Praying, Ross; and you know I don’t do God.”

The journey from the airport had been as close to a religious experience as anything Dwight can remember. The road to Skardu is long and at best a gravel track – at worst, a hellish three-day nightmare played out along the length of the Indus river raging hundreds of metres below. He’d held on for dear life the whole way, too terrified to sleep even if he could have blocked out the noise of the incessant Bhangra music crackling happily from the speakers; the driver seemingly oblivious to their fate and near-blind to the way the wretched tin can of a vehicle almost seemed magnetically drawn to the sheer, unguarded drop that constitutes the side of the road.

Ross merely shrugs, though Dwight is almost sure he can see the flicker of an amused smile ghosting its way across his mouth.

“You could’ve flown,” he offers. “Much more civilised.” He raises his hand to hover above his own bishop but replaces it in his lap after a moment of pause without having touched the piece, only to change his mind and swiftly take a black pawn with it.

“Liar,” Dwight murmurs, leaning over their table to inspect the game more closely. 

Ross knows he hates flying. Dwight will do anything to avoid it where it isn’t completely necessary. The terror of their eventful ride from Rawalpindi to the airstrip at Skardu three years ago is still fresh in Dwight’s memory. The sheer force of the turbulent winds streaming down the vertical slopes around them had nearly caused his head to connect with the roof of the straining DC3 more than once, eyes popping out of his head as the wing tips came impossibly close to towering walls of snow and rock while Ross plastered himself against the window and laughed like a lunatic at the prospect of getting to climb the very peaks that Dwight was certain would be the end of them before they’d even made contact with the runway.

It isn’t a journey he’s intending to repeat, but he knows better than to complain. It’s only by the grace of Ross’s generosity and the depth of his bank account that Dwight is able to be here, and the truth of it is that he would fly round the world three times over if meant an excuse for another expedition and another summit to add to their list.

The girl returns with their tea, her high cheeks flushing as she reaches round Dwight to place his cup in front of him. The old man wordlessly slides his king across into a vacant square and Ross mutters his thanks without taking his eyes off the board, though the way Dwight’s gaze follows her back across the room doesn’t escape him.

“How’s Caroline?” Ross asks drily, calling Dwight’s wandering eyes back to the table.

“Ahh, you know.” He takes a sip of the pale creamy liquid; savouring the strange salty, buttery taste that he has come to know so well. “Ecstatic as always that I’ve abandoned her to risk life and limb with the likes of you.”

The tea hits the spot. Dwight immediately feels more alert and energised, not realising how much the change in elevation has already affected him. The village is a good two kilometres higher than his home in Cornwall but he is acutely aware that this is just the tip of the iceberg of what is to come – or more literally, the base of it.

Ross raises his eyebrows and makes a final defiant move with his knight as a sunny grin suddenly wipes all the lines from his face and leaves him looking ten years younger. His opponent jerks forward in surprise, throwing his hands on his head and laughing as he realises he’s been beaten. He nods his head in acceptance and slides all the spent pieces back towards Ross before he pushes his chair back and bids them what Dwight assumes is a good afternoon as he makes his retreat.

“Still on a winning streak?”

“Naturally. Eight years and counting. Want to try and break it?”

“No chance.” Dwight snorts and folds his arms, leaning back in the chair. He’s lost more games of chess to Ross than he’s had hot meals, and he’s not about to slip back into endless hours of holding his head in his hands while he’s gleefully defeated again and again. His joints creak as he stretches his legs out under the table. He’s glad for a seat, having spent the last few hours walking from where the jeeps had dropped him at the end of the road.

The track between the scruffy town of Skardu and Askole, as the last inhabited town before the massive Baltoro glacier takes over the valley just beyond, isn’t exactly well maintained. He’d hired three cars for him and his kit, passing through green villages in the dappled shade of apple and apricot trees before the route became too dangerous to continue and so he’d finished the rest of the journey on foot.

The porters he’d brought along from Skardu to help him with all his gear have dutifully stacked it in a pile outside, even though most of it isn’t actually going to be coming with them to the peak. As per their usual arrangements, he’d left all the heavy logistics and planning to Ross, who’d arranged for their gear to be brought overland from the Continent by train. As a result, all he’s had to bring with him are his clothes and medical equipment. Dwight is a well-travelled man and he’s more than familiar with conditions in villages like this one – the idea of hygiene a vague concept at best and the almost complete lack of access to healthcare - but this time he’s come prepared with boxes of surplus and anything that he could purchase with the money raised by Caroline’s fundraising efforts, a goodwill gesture that won’t go unappreciated by the inhabitants here.

Ross takes a gulp of his tea and narrows his eyes over the rim of the cup as if something has just occurred to him.

“And Hensh?” He looks round the dim room as if Dwight might be concealing someone behind his back. “Where the heck is Henshawe?”

Dwight makes a vague frustrated noise and lets out a deep lungful of air. “Ahh. Now, don’t go off on one, but it seems that the powers that be didn’t like his paperwork very much.”

Ross slams down the cup and sinks his forehead into his fingertips with a groan. “If this is a practical joke, Dwight, I swear I will absolutely—”

“Sadly not, but look; I left him in Karachi and he’s kicking up a hell of a fuss. I’ll bet you good money he’s already on the way. He’ll be a week behind, tops. He said we should just go and he’ll follow on, come what may.”

Ross nods resignedly into his hands. He’s got to admit he’s been half-expecting something like this to happen. He’d been astounded to actually receive their permit at all after many long months of hassling. The neatly folded letter sits safely in the chest pocket of his shirt, a ridiculously short message for all the weight it carries: _The Government of Pakistan have been pleased to grant permission to the Cornwall Karakoram Expedition, 1964, to scale the Gasherbrum I Peak provided they attempt it via the northwest route._

They’d had a good laugh over that - The Cornwall Karakoram Expedition. Truthfully it’s just Dwight and himself, though Will Henshawe is their man on the ground, the cog that keeps it all ticking over. Even though it’ll make things ten times harder, it is possible for them to make an attempt without him, but Ross will miss him and he knows it won’t feel the same. Much to Will’s annoyance, he’s never found a way to get over the debilitating altitude sickness that seems to strike him down every time he takes a step above six thousand metres, and so these days he’s content to remain at base camp and serve as their weatherman, engineer, cook and much-needed dose of level-headed humour when times get tough.

The political tensions in the region have made the trip almost impossible. They’ve already had to delay by a whole season, but Ross refuses to give in before they’ve even started. They won’t be the first to reach the summit, but then they were both born five years too late to really make a stab at planting the flag on any of the biggest mountains. Still, at a shade over eight thousand metres high and coming in at the eleventh highest in the world, Gasherbrum I poses a serious challenge and Ross is determined to make this trip a success.

“Fucking nightmare. Never mind. Not much we can do from here.” Ross drains his cup and stands up. “Are you done? I’ll show you where we’re sleeping.”

Together they step out into the late afternoon air, already cleaner and cooler than the cities they’ve left behind to the south, but carrying the heavy scent of animal dung and eye watering smoke from cooking fires. Dwight takes in their surroundings with a faint sense of astonishment. The porters had told him that they’d traveled to Gilgit to see the new electric bulbs there just a few months previously, but Askole might as well still be in the Middle Ages.

The houses sit tucked into sharp gullies in the ground, all mud brick and woven birch walls. Each roof is flat and accessible by handmade wooden ladders, extra rooms piled haphazardly on the top and strings of laundry and bright scraps of fabric drying in the gentle breeze.

A shallow stream runs unchecked through the collection of buildings, yaks and goats wandering aimlessly and apparently free to come and go as they like. The whole village is set in the wide flat floor of the valley and steep, dry peaks rise around them like teeth. Stunted trees and emerald green fields cling to the banks of the river but the village is a bright, lush splash of colour in a scene otherwise entirely painted in shades of brown, where rubble and dirt and earth mingle together beneath the hazy blue sky.

“Why is it that I’m sensing it’s not going to be the Ritz?” Dwight mutters, but Ross just laughs and claps his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“It’s as good as we’re going to get for the next couple of months, so I suggest you make the most of it. Come on. Apparently everyone is waiting for some handsome young doctor to arrive, what do you say we go and keep an eye out for him too?”

“Bastard,” Dwight grins, and slopes away down the hill without further ado.

 

* * *

 

“ _Tchu_. Ten. Ten!”

Ross holds up both hands, fingers splayed wide as if to emphasise his point, but both of them know it’s pointless. The swarm of would-be porters is huge, and Ross knows they’re bound to end up hiring at least twenty. In fact he’s counting on it, He and Dwight having deliberately decided in their room earlier that morning to ask for half as many as they need, knowing full well how it'll turn out.

He doesn’t blame them – opportunities like these mean big money for these men, though to himself and Dwight the sum they’re offering seems like peanuts. The popularity of the Karakoram Mountains has grown hugely since the first serious climbers ventured here in the mid-Fifties but the last few years have been quieter for these people what with the conflicts and political instability, and virtual closing down of half the peaks by the government.

He’s still a little sore that their application to climb the bigger and allegedly more difficult Nanga Parbat further to the west was declined in favour of an attempt by a more famous German party, but he knows their time up there will come eventually. Nanga Parbat already has the tag of ‘Killer Mountain’ – unlike their own target, which goes by ‘The Hidden Peak’. He’s decided to take some comfort in the more friendly-sounding nickname though he has enough experience by now to understand that the statistics mean nothing.

They’ll either be successful or they won’t; and they’ll either live to tell the tale or die on the mountain. If not this one, then it could be any of the others yet to come. For him it’s like a kind of drug now, the irresistible high of being higher than anything else, and he knows Dwight beside him feels just the same even if he likes to insist to anyone that will listen that it’s all Ross’s idea and he’s just along to keep him out of trouble.

_"No, not forty! He said ten. Fifteen, then. Look, look here, I’ll draw it for you...”_

Dwight sitting at the low table next to him seems to have got himself involved in a frantic bidding war, and with a wry smile Ross decides it’s best to leave him to it. Neither of them speak enough of the language to make any effective attempts at bartering, and he’s found in these situations it’s usually better to let the villagers come to their own arrangements.

  
They make for a strange expedition. Most people fall around laughing when they realise it’s only the three of them, but they’ve always done it this way and it doesn’t bother him. Ross knows they aren’t the only ones. Their quick and light approach feels more authentic by far compared to the huge teams that sometimes arrive at the base of the mountains, taking weeks to painstakingly set up fixed camps at intervals on the way to the summit and using Sherpas to provision them so that by the time they make their final assault on the summit they barely need to carry any equipment with them.

Ross has tried it a few times but somehow using fixed ropes and ladders to cross the trickier sections of a climb, or popping over a ridge to find a tent already pitched in what should be a white wilderness feels too strange and too unlike adventure for his tastes. He’s not a purist exactly - and he’ll do anything to make sure they get back home in one piece - but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to live as close to the edge as he possibly can within the circumstances.

Having said that, climbing alone doesn’t mean they’re able to get everything they'll need for the next month or so up to where they intend to make their base camp without the help. They’ve found themselves swamped by eager volunteers form the village. Ross is just on the point of wondering if they’ll have to end up hiring the whole bloody lot, when as if by magic the crowd suddenly dissipates and he somewhat miraculously counts a group of twenty five remaining men.

Dwight catches his eye and shrugs, looking exhausted and relieved in equal measure. 

Ross waves them forward and they race through the hastily drawn up contracts, each man pressing his thumb into the ink pad and against the paper in lieu of a signature to seal the deal. They’ll get their cash on delivery of the gear to where Ross has planned to set up their camp, roughly five days walk along the glacier.

Once the formalities are over, and to Ross’s annoyance, their assigned government guide has scrutinised each and every contract, they are left to themselves. Much to their surprise – and delight – the official has no intention of coming any further with them. They’ve allowed provisions for him to stay at base the whole time they're climbing as is normally required, but it seems village life is as close to camping as he is willing to get.

Ross looks over his shoulder at Dwight and receives a silent nod of confirmation in return. They have a long afternoon of packing ahead, sorting their cargo into 60-pound loads for each porter - but not before they’ve taken care of some more personal matters.

It’s become a kind of unspoken tradition between them now, sending their final letters from their last port of call before their expedition really begins. Ross doesn’t know exactly what Dwight writes, but for him it’s always just reassuring chat and nothing like the two letters that his solicitor holds for Demelza and the children in the event that he doesn’t return.

He settles into the chair and carefully smoothes the paper out before he begins.

 

_May 30th, 1964._

_Dearest Demelza,_

_We have arrived safely in Askole. They call it a village, but I’m not sure what you’d think of it. Dwight and I have a room up on the third storey of a mud building. At night I can see the stars through the roof, and Dwight keeps rolling across the floor and crashing into me because the floor is constructed on_ such _a slope!_

_Now that the blur of all the arrangements and air travel is over I finally have the time to turn my thoughts to what lies ahead; and as I always will, I wanted to put your mind at ease with a final letter before we head into the unknown._

_Skardu has already changed so much since our last trip but just a few hours down the road this tiny corner of the earth seems as untouched as ever, and some days I have to remind myself it’s only distance, not time that we have traveled across._

_Tomorrow we’ll start to make our way along the glacier to the peaks. Dwight seems like he’s in fearsome form, as much as a Labrador puppy can be formidable. Incredibly, all our gear is intact and accounted for – which must be a first! Thanks for the surprise chocolate, by the way. I’ll save it for when I need it most of all._  
  
_Will is yet to join us, tangled in red tape somewhere back in civilisation. I have to admit to some doubts as to the logistics of this trip. Our government man has stuck his nose into every piece of our business and the number of documents we need to produce to satisfy him seems to increase every day - but I never doubt in our ability to conquer the beast._  
  
_We’re hoping to make our attempt at the summit in around three weeks time, though as you’re well aware it’s all in the hands of the weather gods and it if we are unlucky it may be many more before we have an opening. Knowing the enthusiasm of the postal service, it’s even possible that by the time you read this we will be standing on the roof of the world._

_Tell Jeremy that yesterday evening we played football with the local kids – though we were completely thrashed and I daresay he’d be unimpressed with my goalkeeping skills. If I can find one on my return trip I’ll bring Clowance back a kite – they fill up the village sky like bright wild birds and I can just see her running along Hendrawna with one in tow._

_Give them a kiss from me, and try not to worry._

He pauses for a long time over the absent last line, chewing on his lip as the pen hovers in the air. At the table next to him, Dwight is racing through pages and pages, no doubt professing his endlessly tragic poetic love for Caroline, but Ross has never quite been able to bring himself to do it.

“If you keep writing her essays, you’re going to get me into trouble. You know they always end up reading them together,” he grunts, but Dwight just laughs and tells him to fuck off.

In the end he just signs off with a hasty scrawl, cursing as his hand brushes across the wet ink and leaves a smudged blue trail along the edge of the paper.

_Best love,  
_

_Ross_

 

* * *

 

The morning dawns cloudless and bright. Dwight decides that it’s a sign of good luck, and both of them have more than a spring in their step as they make short work of clearing out the shabby room they’ve been sleeping in for the past three days. They’re in great spirits, but they’re both quiet as they double check their packs and the pile of equipment that the porters are busily securing to their backs. 

The walk along the glacier is going to be uncomfortable for everyone. Ross is glad for his modern rucksack and its comfortable padded straps. He can’t imagine how these men do it, with scraps of fabric shoved under rough coils of rope holding the cardboard boxes and plastic barrels that contain all their supplies. Still, it’s hardly the first – or last – time they’ll be doing it, and they seem content enough with their luck in having landed some work at all.

Ross can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face. Neither of them has ever climbed so high, but it's not enough to make him want to turn around now. The mountains hold him with a pull he can’t deny. He’s tried; tried to be content with staying home and gentle walks along the coast, but for him there is no feeling comparable to this one; the anticipation of the adventure and the hot flood of adrenaline that comes with it.

It seems such a easy thing. Putting one foot in front of the other until they reach the top, and then turning around and simply walking down again; but Ross is no idiot. He knows though that despite the hope and excitement he feels right now that some of the hardest moments of their lives may well be waiting for them, and there's no way of telling if they'll be successful or not.

And he loves it.

He turns to glance at Dwight, fiddling with the straps that hold his pack around his waist; and then east towards the start of their route along the wide plain of the Braldu River and the tantalising sunlit glint of snow-capped peaks beyond.

“You ready?” His eyes twinkle, a flash of dark mischief betraying the steady calm of his voice.

"Bloody bet I am." Dwight returns the infectious smile and gives him a nudge with the toe of his boot, prodding him to take the first step of an immeasurable many and seamlessly falling into place behind him just like they have done so often before. “Lead on then, Captain.”


	2. River Deep, Mountain High

“Woah. Woah!”

Dwight freezes but the decrepit rope bridge that he desperately clings to still swings wildly as Ross’s voice echoes uselessly across the wide gorge. His fingers grip at the fraying fibres, but his gaze is unfortunately directed straight down to where the raging milky water swirls beneath him, the current snatching at the sharp rocks as it tears away down the valley.

The crossing is little more than a scramble net. It hadn’t looked so bad from the bank, watching patiently as the porters made light work of it despite their unwieldy loads. The collection of men that have signed up to help are slight and small, thin in their baggy shalwar and rough shirts; scrappy second-hand boots and flimsy flip-flops on their feet; but Dwight has made the mistake of judging them based on what he mistakenly believed they couldn’t do - and so it’s he and Ross that have been left panting in their wake as they wind their way towards their destination.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to wait for the bridge to stop twisting quite so viciously beneath him.

“For the love of god, don’t touch that bloody handrail,” Ross shouts again from the opposite bank.

“Oh, thanks.” Dwight's sarcastic reply goes thankfully unheard, but nothing Ross can say is of any use to Dwight now.

He’d tried to slide his fist along the ancient string of rope strung alongside the net but all it had served to do was make the whole thing wobble even more dangerously and now he is stuck in the middle, holding on for dear life.

The porters, or _khurpas_ as they call themselves, are gathered in a line beside Ross, all of them watching Dwight with unguarded curiosity. He almost imagines them holding up score cards as he makes his inevitable entry into the torrent below, no doubt applauding enthusiastically as he gets swept away, never to be seen again.

Calls of what he presumes are helpful encouragement ring out, a riot of waving and pointing arms trying to direct him to safety. In the end Dwight just takes a deep breath and scrabbles across the remaining length of the ancient bridge as fast as he can.

“Christ alive,” he gasps as he throws himself down on his pack to rest against the flat broken rocks of the river bank. “We’re not even two days in and I’m already toast.”

They’d quickly left the sheltered green foothills of the village and the buckwheat fields beyond, beginning the slow ascent toward the dirty snout of the huge glacier. The valley has led them steadily upward along the vaguely terrifying margins of the river and now they've finally found themselves almost at the point where the very edge of the ice rises out of the rocky ground in front of them.

They’d lost count of the number of times they’d looked at each other in confusion on the way here, as thunder rumbled around them through the clear bright sky until Kamran, the youngest of the group, had explained that it was only huge chunks of rock breaking off the ice cliff up ahead and sent crashing downstream by the force of the water.

Dwight throws his arm across his eyes to shield them from the bright white sun and Ross slides into the shadow, standing above him with a wicked grin and an outstretched hand.

“C’mon,” he chuckles as he hauls his friend up. “Taki says the camp isn’t far.”

Dwight snorts. The man that’s emerged as the _sirdar_ \- or leader of the group – had said that yesterday, and yet they’d found themselves walking a full hour and a half more before they made camp at Paiju. Still, Dwight likes Taki, with his quick smile and startling dark blue eyes.

He takes a deep drink from his water bottle before he falls back into line. He and Ross bring up the back of the group that stretches out across the plain to where the river comes crashing fully-grown out of a cave at the base of the ice. The valley is at least a mile wide, but the glacier fills it from edge to edge, only contained by sheer granite walls that rise two miles and more into the sky on either side.

Tonight they’re aiming for the area just under Liligo peak; and then their trek will take them on to camps at Khoburtse, Urdukas and Concordia after that, before they finally turn off the glacier down a narrow valley towards the Gasherbrums.

They’ve made a good pace so far but once they set foot on the glacier it’ll be harder going. For the most part, the surface is covered in shattered rocks and compacted snow, but the nature of the moving ice means that deep crevasses are everywhere and not always visible until too late. Turquoise valleys and streams carve their way through the creaking mass, spilling into pools of unknown depth that fade into black as all the light is swallowed up within them.

Ross knows that this is where the khurpas are invaluable, more familiar with this terrain and its ever changing danger than anyone. Taki and Kamran had told him yesterday that ‘Baltoro’ means ‘bone-breaker’ – and he isn’t at all surprised to see them fall to their knees as one to pray just as the river bed ends in an abrupt wall of snow.

He can’t contain his astonishment however when Nadeem – who must be at least seventy – proceeds to take off his battered sandals and step onto the broken blocks of ice on the moraine with his bare feet. Ross watches him go, standing dumbfounded with his mouth hanging open.

The old man just passes him with a knowing smile. “Glaciers are hard on the shoes,” he says sagely, and moves off and out of sight over the slope without another word.

 

* * *

  

“Someone hasn’t been taking their own advice,” Ross quips, tapping Dwight on his sunburnt nose.

“Oh, shut up.” Dwight swiftly bats his hand away to rub at the flaking skin. 

Judging by the colour of the backs of his hands Ross knows his own face is probably sporting a fairly extravagant tan by now, and god only knows what kind of ridiculous white circles he has around his eyes from where he’s been almost surgically attached to his sunglasses for the past five days as they’ve made their way further into the mountains.

Luckily for him, he doesn’t crisp up like Dwight - even if the poor peeling bastard is wearing a layer of Glacier Cream thick enough to spread on bread - but his own skin still feels tight from the strong sun and relentless dry wind.

They’ve been incredibly lucky with the weather and so far there hasn’t been any need for their thickest outer layers or even gloves; but then in the warmth the ice beneath the scattered rocks on the surface has been slushy and harder to walk on, and both of them are relived to have finally reached the site for their last overnight camp before they reach their intended spot for base camp.

This is the one Ross has been waiting for.

Concordia.

The low hum of excitement has been building in him ever since they started passing the first of the famous peaks. It’s the first time he’s laid eyes on them, their last trip to the Karakoram having taken them in an entirely different direction; and he’s been itching to see the places he’s read and heard so much about. Taki had pointed out the Trango Tower and Masherbrum as they passed, with spectacular views up ahead drawing them ever closer to their target.

Most of the mountains here still have no name, and the previous night he and Dwight had poured over their map in Ross’s tent and made grand plans to return and tackle some of the virgin valleys and vast uncharted swathes of the range.

Taki has shown them the best place to make camp, and now that the tents are pitched Ross finally feels like he has time to soak it all in, sitting quietly in the centre of this savage, glittering crown of granite. He kicks off his boots and wriggles his socked toes in the air with a satisfied sigh, though he’s careful to keep the soles of his feet pointed well away from the general direction of the khurpas. They don’t seem to mind, and all laugh at his huge discarded shoes, his size elevens a total novelty in a neat-footed nation.

The sun is already hanging low in the sky, sending flames up the giant vertical walls of cracked and jagged rock all around them, so steep that their surfaces are largely free from ice. Concordia camp is set in a junction where the huge Godwin-Austen glacier joins the one they’re walking up, creating a massive wide-open space with staggering views in every direction.

Before him are the Mitre and Broad peaks, and the sharp, shark-tooth row of the rest of the Gasherbrums, though the Hidden Peak is living up to its nickname and is still tantalisingly just out of sight. Stretching away toward the horizon are countless smaller summits, though it almost seems laughable to be discounting anything below seven thousand metres high as too small to bother about. To their left, the awesome bulk of K2 rises from earth, keeping a silent vigil over the world below it.

Somehow being perched in the shadow of the second highest point on earth has sobered him up, and Ross is torn between the urge to whoop for joy and wanting to be alone. There is something disturbingly inhuman about K2, no comfort to be found in the sheer walls of black rock and snow shimmering in the dying sun.

Most peaks he’s climbed have their own personality but this one is all atoms and indifference, almost as if it is aware that the comings and goings of the men attempting to conquer it will never alter the fact that it will remain standing alone here long, long after civilisation has finally burnt itself out.

Dwight announces his plans for another wash, but even he seems subdued by the majesty of their surroundings. Last night at Urdukas they’d talked and joked all evening but here they’ve gone about the task of setting up camp in near silence, each quietly contemplating the sudden unnerving sensation of being very, very small.

Still, Ross hasn’t forgotten the image of Ahsan standing yesterday on the lip of a shallow cyan pool in the ice, eyes popping out of his head and his hands held up in a gesture that wouldn’t be out of place had he just caught a 12-inch salmon instead of having inadvertently stumbled on a very naked Dwight enjoying a freezing bath.

A laugh bubbles out of him at the memory, and he lets the smile warm his face in the fading heat of the day before he pushes himself up off the rubble to follow the grumbling of his stomach and track down the source of the mouthwatering smell wafting over from the cooking fire.

 

* * *

 

The meal has settled them all and the khurpas have taken themselves to their shelters to sleep, huddled together for warmth under their scruffy blankets and tarps. They’d all wound up in an impromptu cricket match, the ball sailing high over the moraines to the sound of shouts and cheers and eventually coming to an abrupt end when it was unfortunately swallowed by a crevasse, but the game had broken the strange heavy feeling in the air and the evening had wound up as the ones before had, relaxing round the fire while the khurpas sang songs and played makeshift drums on the blue barrels rammed full of food and gear.

Ross stretches out on the uneven ground next to Dwight with his down jacket bundled under his head. They’ve dragged their sleeping mats and bags out of their tents to watch the endless show of shooting stars above. The moon is so bright that the sky is still a deep blue even though it’s long past ten o’clock; and though both of them are tired from the trek so far, at four and half thousand metres up Concordia is just high enough in altitude for Ross to find it difficult to sleep.  
  
There’s no need to say much. The sheer scale of the mountains towering darkly above them is humbling and it’s just so _quiet_ – the only noise coming from the whip of the wind across the exposed ice and the sound of his own heavy breathing in his ears.

A long rustle of Dwight’s sleeping bag breaks the silence and Ross can tell he’s peeing into a bottle, too lazy to even get himself untangled. Ross hasn’t quite resorted to that yet himself but he knows it’s only a matter of days before it’s too cold and tired to be even thinking about leaving the warmth of their bags before it’s absolutely necessary.

Dwight lets out a prolonged groan of relief and folds his arms under his head, settling back to watch nature showing off for them. “Are you nervous?” he asks quietly.

“What for?”

“The ascent.”

“No,” Ross replies softly but emphatically, shaking his head against the bundled jacket. “No, I’m not.” He turns to look at his friend and grins, his profile picked out by the silver light. “Thanks for coming with me.”

Dwight returns the look and their shared smile grows even wider. “Any time,” he says. 

“I’m glad there’s someone in my life that’s as mad as me.”

Dwight laughs and turns his head back to the sky soaring above them. “Nobody, Ross; not single person on the face of this earth is as mad as you.”

 

* * *

 

Ross is almost sure Dwight has fallen asleep, but the darkness is broken once more by his voice.

“Do you think we are the most remote people on earth right now?”

“What, you mean apart from them?” Ross nods his head towards the pile of sleeping porters with a quiet laugh. “Feels like it through, doesn’t it?” He shuffles down further into his sleeping bag, wriggling his feet in the warmth gathered at the bottom. “God, I love bed,” he sighs. 

“It’s hardly a bed, is it.”

”I’ve slept in worse.”

”Well, we don’t all get our kicks out of playing Boy Scouts in the jungle.” Dwight looks pointedly at Ross. “Hell, I’d give anything to be back in my own bed right now with my wife.”

“I wouldn’t,” Ross snorts loudly, but in the resulting pause he’s painfully aware that his reply is too fast and too forceful. “I just mean – it’s taken a lot of planning, you know, getting us here; and I wouldn’t want to go home without at least giving it a stab,” he adds quickly.

Dwight rises on his elbow, turning on his side to better look at Ross who is busy watching the stars even more studiously than before.

“Does she know?”

“Know what?”

“You know what,” Dwight murmurs, watching as Ross’s frown deepens into a valley as sharp as any of those that surround them.

Neither of them say anything more, each lost in their own thoughts. It isn’t long until Ross hears the sound of Dwight’s breathing levelling out and light snores drift over from the bundle of cosy down that he’s drawn around himself, but it’s not until many, many hours later that sleep finally finds Ross too and claims him for itself.

 

* * *

 

The morning breaks overcast and colder than the ones before. Ross’s body feels stiff from spending the night outdoors, but nothing can dampen his enthusiasm as he makes his way over to muscle in on the khurpas’ breakfast. They hand him fresh _khowar_ , the local bread; sweet yoghurt and fruit. Dwight joins them, still groggy with sleep, and they eat with their faces turned toward the clouded summit of K2.

Ross can’t help but feel a little twinge of regret that they aren’t attempting it. It isn’t quite as high as the more famous Mount Everest to the southeast in Nepal but by all accounts is even harder to climb. Everest is already becoming somewhat of a playground since Hillary first made the summit in ’53, but despite a number of attempts – and a death or two - so far there have only been one pair of men to make the top of K2, and even that was ten years ago now.

Still, they’re hardly the most experienced climbers on the circuit and he knows it’ll do them far more good to get some more practice under their belts before they even think about applying for a permit.

They’re achingly close now to their destination, and he finds himself bouncing on the balls of his feet while he waits impatiently for camp to be broken. It’s another five or so hours walk after they make their left hand turn down the Abruzzi glacier just up ahead, and tonight will be their first in the spot that that will be their base camp for the foreseeable future.

The rest of the trek is a blur of anticipation and the first real nagging consequences of the altitude. He and Dwight already have to stop and rest more times than Ross would like, and when they speak they’re reduced to taking deep, panting breaths between each sentence, though he knows that a few more days up here without pushing themselves too hard should make it all seem a lot easier.

Somewhere along the way, he looks back over his shoulder and realises he can’t see the top of K2 any more. It gives him a hot thrill when it dawns on him that the next time he sets eyes on it will most likely be from the summit of Gasherbrum I – if they even make it up there. The khurpas are keen to press on, eager to start the journey back to their homes and families. Ross follows the line of men steadily picking their way across the waves of ice, step after step after step, and before he knows it he’s standing at the base of the south Gasherbrum glacier and staring straight up at the mountain they’ve come to climb.

She’s a beauty. A more-or-less classic cone shape, like many of the other Gasherbrums. At her base is the blocky mess of the ice flow, partly obscured by the low pile of Gasherbrum South; which leads up to a long western ridge and vast snowy slopes underneath the black, rocky mess of the near-vertical face above. The summit is shielded from view by thick swirling snow clouds, but Ross knows what’s up there – a razor sharp white ridge that leads to the very top, the world falling away on either side.

He stands still for a long moment to take it in, and without turning he senses Dwight doing the same thing behind him. The porters are less impressed, having mostly seen it before; and they waste no time in throwing down their loads and unloading the gear.

Taki advises them on the best spot to pitch. The base camp is a long finger of moraine, their tents and the large mess tent scattered down the centre of the snow-covered glacier. A small, ice-blue stream cuts through the ice and will provide them with drinking water, though they’ll still have to go through the tedious process of boiling it each time.

In front of him the huge bulk of Baltoro Kangri mountain, which Taki tells him means the Golden Throne, rises nearly two and a half thousand metres out of the white valley floor. Ross can make out the perfect cone of Chogolisa peak in the distance, and further up the glacier beyond Sia Kangri peak is the high saddle that leads up and over into Kashmir.

The route that leads back to the Baltoro glacier is hidden round the corner of a brown rocky shoal and it feels almost like they are in a different, more cosily-contained world than the wide, sweeping one they had breakfast in just that morning. He tries not to think about how remote they are. In a matter of minutes the khurpas will be heading back to Askole and only now does he start to wonder just what they will do if something goes wrong.

As if on cue the porters begin to approach him one by one. Ross searches for the thick envelope of cash that he’s carried here in the bottom of his bag. They’ve earned it, every rupee; and he thanks each of them in turn, the departing line of men shaking his right hand with their left placed over their hearts.

The last man to arrive is Nadeem, who leaves Ross speechless when he produces from the folds of his shirts and assorted rags thirty-one eggs, all perfectly intact despite the hard trek. He hands them over with a huge laugh before he too hurries back the way they came, leaving Ross and Dwight alone in the desolate raw beauty of their white wilderness.

 

* * *

   
The next few days they barely move, taking the time to sleep and read, sorting their kit and getting themselves used to the thin air. They’ve allowed for two weeks to acclimatise and plan their route before they make their final big push to the top, if the weather will let them.

Before they’d zipped themselves into their tents for the night they’d eaten their dinner admiring a towering serac high above them, and then admired it again at half past two in the morning when it came crashing to the valley floor in a thundering cloud of snow and ice.

By the third morning, Ross is feeling much more like himself and to their delight the sun has finally made a reappearance, allowing them to see the summit for the first time.

“Are we even up to this, Ross? It’s a bit bloody high, isn’t it?” Dwight’s face is turned upward in awe, and his words almost a reverent whisper.

They’d been going about their morning routine - breakfast and banter and plans for the day - but in the end they hadn’t been able to resist scrambling up the low slopes of Baltoro Kangri to get a better look.

“That’s sort of the point,” Ross mumbles around the toothbrush still stuck in his mouth. He spits a mouthful of toothpaste onto the snow and buries it with his foot, but their attention is caught by an unexpected noise.

_“Oi!”_

The cheerful call echoes up the valley and their heads fly round in search of the sound. Six figures make their way up toward them and Ross immediately bounds down the hill as fast as his legs will carry him, the dark scree and chunks of ice rolling away under his boots.

“Hensh!”

He throws his arms around Will, bowling him over with the strength of the hug. Both of them laugh as Dwight piles in behind them seconds later, leaving them all breathlessly rolling on the ground.

“Damn, it’s good to see you,” Ross pants as he sits up and brushes snow from his knees as Henshawe’s porters begin to lower their gear to the ground. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Oh, don’t bloody ask. Fucking formalities, enough said. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Sorry I couldn’t be here sooner though.”

Ross just waves him off, glad that he’s made it at all.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re here now. Christ, we’ve got so much to do,” he smiles as Hensh hauls himself back on to his feet. “Come on, we’ll show you where everything is.”

“Hang on, Ross.” Hensh looks suddenly nervous, tugging off his knitted hat to ruffle a hand through his flattened hair. “There’s... there’s something I need to tell you, and you’re not going to like it.”

 

* * *

   
Sixty-four. From their vantage point Ross counts sixty-four men snaking steadily up the ice like a human train. They’ve been watching them for an hour, and his eyebrows are pressed so low that his furious eyes are almost hidden. Dwight knows better than to talk to him just yet, so instead he turns back to Will, who sits quietly next to him.

“And you’re absolutely sure?” 

“That’s what my local boys told me,” Hensh shrugs. “A couple of their lads came ahead to chat to mine, and unless something has been lost in translation, that’s definitely what it looks like.”

Dwight shakes his head. He can’t understand how it’s possible that another expedition would be granted a permit to climb the same peak at the same time when the government have made it crystal clear that climbing is restricted and they’ve had such a hell of a time getting here themselves. He can only assume that there’s been a mix-up, and that the group will be making an attempt on one of the other Gasherbrums.

“How many are even going to be staying?” Dwight mutters. “There’s no room for all that lot.”

”There’s no room for any of them,” Ross grunts.

“Not sure. They’ve obviously got a bloody tonne of gear though. Got to be a bigger party than ours,” Hensh says.

Though Dwight would swear it was impossible, Ross’s scowl deepens further and without another word he sets off on long, quick legs down the slope toward the rapidly gathering crowd who are now unloading their packs just down from their own base camp.

  
He makes his way toward the huddle of men dressed in bright down jackets. One of them looks up and smiles when he notices Ross approaching, though Ross can’t very well make him out underneath his hat and dark sun goggles over his eyes.

“You here to climb?” he asks brusquely, pushing his way past a discarded pile of equipment.

“Morning!” The man sounds cheerful to the point of laughing, but Ross doesn’t find anything about the current situation remotely amusing. “We certainly are. You’ll have to excuse me - only it’s sort of funny, isn’t it? We weren’t exactly expecting to find anyone else up here! Jim, by the way.” 

He holds out his hand to shake Ross’s, but he’s left hanging. 

“Right, well. Here we are.” Ross plants his feet and folds his arms defiantly, watching with a small satisfaction as Jim withdraws his own hand. “Where are you headed? Do you need directions?”

Jim cocks his head and flips his goggles up to rest on his head, squinting at Ross in the sudden bright light. He doesn’t say as much, but as his smile fades around the edges, Ross can see him wondering where exactly he is intending to give him directions to, here in the most remote corner of the world anyone could imagine. Jim’s eyes are almost as unnaturally blue as the icy water running behind him and for a second Ross entirely forgets what he was going to say. Dwight catches up with them and nods a curt greeting.

“The thing is, we’re exactly where we need to be. That’s ours,” Jim says, turning and pointing straight up the face of Gasherbrum I.

“There’s got to be a mistake, then. We’re here to climb that. You sure you haven’t got your numbers mixed up? You’re not going up Two, or Four?” Ross keeps his voice low, but he can feel the heat of anger starting to build just beneath his skin.

“Pretty damn sure, but I thank you for your concern.”

Jim’s smile stays friendly, but there’s slight defiant edge creeping in underneath it that Ross doesn’t miss.

“You got a permit?” Ross growls.

Jim gives his head a slight shake of resignation and drops to his knees to rummage in the front pocket of one of the rucksacks, producing a carefully folded letter that looks sickeningly familiar. He stands and hands it to Ross, calmly shoving his hands in his pockets and watching intently as Ross unfolds it.

Ross stares at the paper in his hand before he thrusts it at Dwight, turning and striding away to his tent without another word. Dwight peers at the scrawl of writing and his stomach sinks as he reads the official document, signed and stamped just like their own.

_The Government of Pakistan have been pleased to grant permission to the Hispaniola Climbing Collective, 1964, to scale the Gasherbrum I Peak provided they attempt it via the northwest route._

“Well, well, gents.”

Another voice cuts through the din of activity all around them, and Dwight looks up as a slight, fair-haired man with a self-satisfied grin plastered all over his face steps up next to the first. 

“Looks like we’ll be racing you to the top.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all for your kudos and comments so far.
> 
> The egg anecdote is actually a true story from an expedition to the same base camp. I thought it was so neat that I had to include it - as is the story of the porter impressed with a western climber’s ‘package’ :D - though I believe 18 inches was the measurement from the real life story!!
> 
> Moraine - the mass of rock and sediment carried down and deposited by a glacier, usually as long ridges at the extremities. 
> 
> Serac - a block or tower of ice formed where two or more crevasses intersect on a glacier. They are quite often house-sized or bigger, and can topple with little or no warning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates here! I had to work on another pairing for a while but I’m back with a vengeance so hopefully I’ll be posting much more regularly. Thanks, as always, for reading.

 

_I remember it well_

_The first time that I saw_

_Your head round the door_

_’Cos mine stopped working_

_I Remember - Damien Rice_

 

 

“The way I see it, we have two choices. Either we pack up and split, or we stay and climb the bastard.”

Ross wriggles petulantly on top of his sleeping bag. His act of pretending to ignore Dwight - defiantly folding his arms across his chest and knitting his eyebrows together as he stares daggers through the side of the tent - falls on deaf ears.

Dwight has known Ross long enough to have given up tiptoeing around his sulks. His moods are easy enough to read, given that Ross really only fluctuates between easy sunny laughter and long, sullen silences; though other people often mistake his moments of deep thought and worrying for anger.

And Ross does worry. Way more than he lets on to anyone else. Far more than he even lets on to Dwight, but Dwight can see it in the tense line of his jaw and the way he squares his shoulders all the same. He might come across as cold and hard-edged at times, but underneath it all is a guy with a huge heart who would do anything to keep those close to him happy - and it’s this side of him that Dwight is hoping to talk some sense into now.

He sighs and runs his hand absentmindedly along the thin fabric of the inner where the sunlight is dappling through. The tent is Ross’s absolute pride and joy. The brand-new bright blue Fjällräven has only just been released and Dwight was almost reduced to tears when he’d been handed his own back in Askole. It’s so lightweight and so much warmer than anything they’ve had before, and he can’t wait to see what it’s like sleeping in one high up on the mountain behind them – if he can even convince Ross to come with him, that is.

“Thing is, Ross, I’ll follow you wherever you want to go, but we’ve come a bloody long way and I really don’t want to give them the satisfaction if we don’t even try to give them a run for their money.”

“We’re obviously not leaving.” Ross mutters. “It’s just hardly going to be how we imagined, is it. If anyone’s leaving, it should be them. I mean they’re going to get in the way, it’s going to be shi—”

“Not necessarily. Think of it this way. We can watch them hashing it out, let them make the mistakes, let them break trail—”

“I don’t want anyone to break trail for us! It’s hardly going to be the experience we came looking for, is it. Bet you anything there will be fixed ropes and bloody ladders everywhere as well. Bullshit.”

Ross practically spits the last words into the air and Dwight can’t help but feel his frustration.

“I know, I know,” Dwight sighs heavily and scratches at his chin. He needs a shave already, damnit. “Look, I know it’s not what we wanted and I’m not exactly stoked about it either, but I can’t really see that we have any other option than to just get on with it. Not unless you want to cut out and come back next year. And anyway, it’s not really their fault, is it? They didn’t know we were here any more than we knew they were coming - that guy had absolutely no idea that there was another permit granted. I bet you anything they’re sitting over there saying exactly the same thing about us.”

Ross blinks at the roof of the tent rippling in the wind for a few seconds more before Dwight plays his final card.

“And I am absolutely certain that I saw a few bottles of Haigh’s being unpacked over there. I can’t think of any good reason that one of them shouldn’t go missing during the night.”  
  
Ross tries hard not to smile but he fails spectacularly and Dwight knows he’s won. He tuts dramatically and sits up, tugging his knitted hat down over his mass of hair and finally looking Dwight dead in the eye.

“Fine. We stay, they stay, and we all climb. But I want to get up there before they do. And I’m not about to make friends with anyone. _And_ just so you know, I’m doing it for the whisky, not for you.”

“Whatever. And I think that’s a bloody given, Poldark. When was the last time you actually made a friend?” Dwight shuffles up to his knees and wriggles out the door, holding it open for Ross. “It’s settled then. Come on. You might as well come and say hello.”

 

* * *

 

“…and this is John.”

The man who introduced himself as Jim gestures to his tall, weathered-looking companion, who holds his hand out and almost crushes Will’s in an over-enthusiastic shake.

“Silver.”

John’s voice is a low Yorkshire rumble and his lopsided smile reveals half a mouth of gold capped teeth. The lines round his eyes are so deep that he looks like he’s permanently grinning, but then Ross can’t actually imagine him ever looking unhappy.

“Hensh,” Will replies, and before Ross knows it Silver is steering Will away into their own private conversation, Will having spent half his life based in the Peak District and thrilled at having found another Northern boy in the arse-end of nowhere.

That leaves Dwight and Ross with Jim, who has taken time out of setting up camp to properly introduce his team and apologise again to Ross for having caused any upset. They’re standing in the shade of Jim’s almost assembled mess tent — far larger than their own, Ross notes — but Jim doesn’t seem to be in a particular hurry to shake them off despite the fact he has what looks suspiciously like half a dead animal slung round his shoulders.

The day is fast heating up, and Jim has shucked his jacket and hat. Ross stands just a little further back than Dwight and Will, using the fact that his eyes aren’t visible behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses to get the proper measure of Jim.

He’s a fair bit shorter than the rest of them, but from the way his black thermal shirt is stretched tightly across his arms he doesn’t look any less strong. In fact if Ross had to guess, he’d have Jim down as a rock climber; more wiry, but with longer muscles compared to Ross’s own, bulkier physique. He wonders if he has the endurance for weeks of high altitude, but then Dwight’s slim appearance doesn’t exactly inspire anyone with much confidence and yet he manages just fine.

“Ben is around here somewhere,” Jim continues, craning his neck behind the tent. “And you’ve already met George.”  
  
He sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles long and high to where the man Ross presumes he’s referring to is giving instructions by the dwindling pile of barrels and boxes.

“He’ll be over,” Jim smiles, the corners of his mouth pulling back to reveal a deep dimple in each cheek.

Now that they’re out of the blinding glare of the sun, the eyes that had looked so glacial earlier are practically green. Even though he’s presumably been walking for days, Jim’s hair is a neat sweep of straw blonde, sun-whitened at the ends like he’s been somewhere warmer than a British winter could ever be capable of offering. Ross feels suddenly grubby by comparison, his own hair already well tangled and his jawline scruffed with dark stubble in comparison to Jim’s smooth, unlined skin.

Though he guesses Jim is a little younger than Ross he sounds confident and relaxed, speaking with the slightest trace of an accent that sounds familiar — something about the way Jim’s mouth moves around his vowels and draws out his r’s.

“About three days,” Dwight replies. Ross realises he’s answering a question he hasn’t heard. George has joined them and is in the middle of saying something so he hurriedly snaps his eyes up to try and rejoin the dialogue just as George thrusts his hand out towards him.

“Give me some skin,” he grins, too toothy and with a total lack of sincerity.

Ross hates him akmnost instantly. 

He grips George’s hand a little too tightly and shakes it quickly, dropping it again as fast as he reasonably can. He tucks his hands round his sides and fixes his mouth back into a tense line in case George thinks he actually wants to strike up a conversation.

A group of porters begin to drag barrels and crates into the tent to start unloading, and Jim suggests they head off to give them some space while Silver stays inside to oversee their gear and lend a hand. Despite the hive of activity around them, Ross notices that George isn’t making any moves to help out. His tent is already pitched but Jim’s still sits in a tidy pile in its bag alongside the rest of his kit further up the icy slope.

“I’ll get to it in a bit,” he shrugs when he notices Ross looking. “I like to make sure everything else is taken care of first.”

At that, Ross decides that maybe Jim isn’t so bad, even if he’s still slightly pissed that any of them are here at all. He respects that; wanting to see that everyone is looked after before himself. It comes as second nature to Ross given his career; and he finds himself doing it when they climb too, even if Dwight and Hensh require very little in the way of leadership or looking after and are constantly dragging him for daring to think he’s in charge.

The conversation seems to come to a natural lull and in the quiet Dwight looks to Ross expectantly. He realises he’s barely said anything so far and that he’s going to need to do a little better if they’re going to be sharing the mountain with another team for the next month.

“So your porters… they’re staying?” he ventures.

“Four of them are, yeah,” Jim nods. “Usman is our chef, he’s in there with John; and then there’s Yusuf, Athar and… Omar, that’s it. They’re our climbing support so they’ll be heading up with us to set up our camps. The rest will be heading back to Askole as soon as they’re done here, I think.”

Ross clenches his nails in his palm but doesn’t say anything. He knows Dwight is biting his tongue next to him, too. The fixed-camp approach to climbing isn’t their jam, but he tells himself that it’s not like they have to get involved. Jim’s talk of climbing support can only mean that he’s brought more tents with them to pitch at intervals up the peak, and their high altitude porters will be heading up there with them to stock them with food and supplies while Jim and his team acclimatise. The only problem for Ross is going to come when it comes to finding safe places to overnight on their way up and down that haven’t already been claimed by the others before they make their own final push to the top.

“Is it just the three of you, then?” Jim asks, glancing up the glacier toward Ross’s more meagre camp.

“Mmm. Dwight and I are the only ones heading up the hill, though. Will stays down here.”

“Wow. That’s… minimalist.” Jim’s gold eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “And here’s me thinking we were a small party ourselves.”

“Yes, well. We,” he glances at Dwight, who merely shrugs back. “We’re giving it a go Alpine-style.”

He waits for the inevitable jawdrop.

It comes.

“You’re… you’re not serious?” Silver butts in, having obviously overheard. He looks from Ross up to the summit behind them and back again. “Are you mad?”

“Probably,” Dwight mutters, but Ross is busy watching for Jim’s reaction. He’s gone from shock to unbridled awe and Ross can’t help but feel a little bit pleased. Almost everyone they’ve told has patted them on the backs and wished told them to save them a chair in Hell, but if anything this Jim fellow seems jealous.

“So no, what, no oxygen? You using ropes?” he asks.

“Hopefully not,” Ross replies. “We’ll take some up obviously, but we’re not fixing any before we go. And no gas, no.”

“Sheesh. That’s some mission. Do you think you’ll—”

“Jim! Jimmy!”

Another voice echoes over the valley and they all turn to where a dark-haired and slightly dazed looking young man is surrounded by a crowd of now empty-handed khurpas wanting their cash before they return home.

“Ahh, damn it, Ben needs help. You’ll have to excuse me. Listen, why don’t you three come down for dinner?” Jim throws the carcass onto the ground next to him and wipes his hands of the greasy reside. “You like goat?”

“Good idea,” George agrees as Jim jogs away to help Ben with the payments. “Least we can do for killing your vibe. No hard feelings, man.”

Ross wants to refuse on the basis that he frankly doesn’t like him, but he thinks it’s probably not very sporting and even he isn’t so stubborn as to turn down the offer of food if it means they can make their own supplies last a little longer.

“Fine,” he says, forcing his face into a tight smile. “We’re heading up the hill for a bit anyway, aren’t we, Dwight? About time we got some exercise. Just give us a shout when you’re ready.”

 

* * *

 

“So are we going?”

They’re sitting on a gentle mound of snow up a few hundred feet above camp. From here Ross can see the haphazard array of tents that now sprawl down the middle of the icy valley bellow, all awash in orange and pink by the grace of the stunning sunset. Dwight flicks tiny snowballs down the hill and Ross finds himself wishing he had his camera – or even better, a drink or a smoke. 

“‘Spose,” he murmurs.

He feels bad that they’ve largely left Hensh to fend for himself today, but he’s got enough to do with his own unpacking and Ross needed to strike out and get some clear air in between him and the others. He’d felt better almost instantly, only annoyed that the unexpected arrivals had meant they’d lost a lot of time in the morning and hadn’t managed to get as high up as they would have liked.

They’d spent the day picking their way up the icefall that marks the beginning of their route. It’s hard going on the knees and hands; sharp blocks that shift with no warning and deep crevasses scarring the uneven surface, but it’s been fun and Ross can’t wait to get their gear together and head further up to find a spot for their first camp and stay there tomorrow night.

Still, his thoughts are turning to the rumbling in his stomach and even from where they’ve stopped on the way down to take in the view tempting wafts of cooked food and the unmistakeable smell of hashish float up from the other camp.

Small figures work their way around the tents. He can see Hensh puttering around outside their own mess tent and bright flames licking around a dark pile of stones that marks the other team’s campfire, and a flash of fair hair that he assumes can only be Jim sitting outside a domed yellow tent. He shields his eyes with his hands to try and better see what he’s doing. He looks to be holding a book, but whether he’s reading or writing Ross can’t tell.

“Don’t let him get to you.”

“Hmm?” Ross looks up too fast. “Who?”

“George. I know you don’t like him.” Dwight scrapes together a handful of loose snow and starts to compact it into a ball between his palms.

“And you do?”

“Didn’t say that. But we’re stuck with him and you’re going to have to at least try and be civil.”

“I was civil. I accepted his dinner invite, didn’t I?”

“You know what I mean.” The snowball goes flying into the air and sails a long arc down to the valley below.

“Huh. Well who does he think he is, anyway? He’s got to be the same age as us and he talks like a bloody hippie. ‘We’re killing you’re vibe, man’,” Ross mimics in a stupid voice. “He’s an idiot.”

“Sometimes I forget you’re thirty four, not sixty, Ross. Chill out. And he might be an idiot, but he’s still a climber and about to take on an eight-thousander. You’ve got to respect that, at least.”

“Don’t have to do anything.”

“Fine,” Dwight huffs, starting on another handful of snow. “But you never know, he might have a shitload of experience and be able to give us some useful tips.”

“Unless it’s tips on where best to bury a body so no-one will ever find it, I can’t see myself being interested.”

Ross pushes up and brushes the snow off the back of his trousers. He looks from Dwight’s face to the perfectly formed snowball in his hand, but he’s too slow and Dwight sets off down the slope with a triumphant whoop and a flurry of powder while Ross wriggles helplessly against the frozen slush crammed down the back of his neck, his echoing threats following Dwight all the way to the bottom.

 

* * *

 

Silver lets loose a long belch and Ben almost immediately follows it up with one of his own and a high pitched, helpless laugh.

“That’s one way to show your appreciation to the chef,” Dwight mutters, but Ross has had enough whisky now to find it fairly funny himself. He clinks the chunk of melting ice in his mug, the liquid inside sloshing amber in the light of the bonfire. Dinner had far exceeded his expectations and Will and Dwight have already agreed amongst themselves to spend as much time as possible scrounging off the other team’s supplies. Hensh is a wizard when it comes to cooking on rations, but there’s only so much anyone can really do with a can of Spam.

  
Ben hands George up the remains of the joint he’s been hammering and he takes it with a grin, though Ross can’t help but think he looks in considerable pain when he takes just one over ambitious toke and holds it out quickly to Ross.

“Want to join in, Mister…?”

George waits for Ross to supply his name, but Ross isn’t in a hurry to oblige him. Weed isn’t exactly his scene and George hasn’t done anything to endear himself to Ross during the meal, bragging about his summer house down near Truro. Dwight had caught Ross’s eye, and he knows if he gets wind of them being from his neck of the woods he’ll only want to come and visit. Ross thinks he’d probably rather shoot himself.

“It’s Captain, actually.”

Jim silently leans in and takes the joint from George instead, slim fingers tucking the grubby paper between themselves. He shuffles himself back away from the fire and sets himself on a bank of stones a little way away from the group, seemingly content to watch them in silence while John does all the talking.

“My apologies, Captain.” From the way George emphasises the last word, he makes it pretty clear he isn’t sorry at all, but Ross couldn’t care less. Dwight wants to say something in retort, knowing how rare it is for Ross to defer to his rank; but he can feel Ross bristling next to him and can tell he is about to lose his shit, so he tactfully decides to hold his tongue for both their sakes and change the subject.

“You know you really shouldn’t smoke that stuff up here,” he tells Jim. “It’ll hit you twice as hard.”

Jim just gives a languid shrug and lets smoke curl out of the corner of his mouth all the same. Ross glances down to Ben who appears to have fallen asleep at Silver’s feet and reasons that Dwight probably isn’t far wrong.

“Told you he was an officer,” Silver leans back on his hands and winks over at Jim. Ross doesn’t like the idea that he’s either so transparent or seemingly been discussed behind his back.

“What difference does it make?” he asks defensively.

“None at all, lad. Captain myself, not like the rest of these scoundrels.” John glares in mock disgust around the rest of his team, sprawled in various states of sobriety on the ice. “I left Suez in fifty-four and got myself on a team heading up Kanchenjunga the year after.”

Ross sits up with undisguised interest. Nepal is his stomping ground, but he’s never climbed that particular peak himself. “Who were you with?”

“Sappers.”

“Did you make it?” he asks, his voice colouring with curiosity. “Up Kanchenjunga?”

“Part of the first ascent party. No feeling like it in the world, being up there first,” Silver nods proudly, tapping his leg. “Though this was a souvenir I wasn’t expecting.” He rolls up the end of his trousers to reveal a crude prosthetic where the rest of his right calf should be, replacing everything from just below the knee.

“How the fucking hell do you climb with that?” Dwight yelps in astonishment, but Silver only laughs heartily. “What happened?”

“Frostbite,” he shrugs. “What a bitch it was, too. As for climbing, though, I’d say it’s easier if anything. One less limb to keep warm.”

“So how does it work, then? Your little collective? Have you done lots of expeditions like this together?” Will looks up from the pile of ice screws he’s been busy sharpening and directs the question to the scattered group, stretching his arms high above his head with a huge yawn.

He pushes the rest of the pile towards Ross who gathers them towards himself. It’s not his favourite activity, but he’s glad to have something to do with his hands and he quickly takes over.

“Jim and I go way back.” Silver settles back on his hands as he begins to explain. “I found him half frozen in the Munros one day. Barely into his teens he was, fucking green as they come. I was good enough to take the time to show him the hundred and one things he was doing wrong.” He looks over to Jim with a loud laugh, but Jim’s mouth just twitches into the beginnings of a smile. “Still, he was keen and quick and we completed a round the year after,” Silver continues. “Since then it’s been Italy and Switzerland when we’ve had the chance; and that’s where we met Benny here.”

Ben is too busy singing to himself, eyes glassy under half-closed lids to notice he’s being talked about.

“Speak when you’re spoken to, Benjamin,” Silver prompts.

“Cool, man.”

“No bloody respect,” Silver grumbles, but he sounds fond enough all the same. “Anyway. Benjamin’s a botanist. He says he’s here for research as much as anything else, though it looks like he’s already sampled all the greenery he’s going to get his hands on around here.”

Ben giggles and rolls onto his side, raking his fingers through the broken chunks of rock sitting on top on the ice.

“And Jim’s been in the States, haven’t you Jimmy.”

“Yosemite.”

The whisper is raw with hot smoke and Jim’s eyes are softly glazed from weed and the fondness of whatever memory is dancing inside them. They all look over to him, but he just stares into the middle distance and doesn’t seem keen to expand on his one contribution to the conversation.

That explains the bleached hair, Ross thinks. He turns his attention back to the pile of half-finished screws by his side but reality he’s itching to ask Jim all about it. He’s heard some amazing things about the trails over there and even though it’s been ages since he’s done any true rock climbing it’s always been his first love.

“Anyway, Ben and Jim did Chamlang with me in sixty-two after I waited for them to finish peeling potatoes and polishing boots.” Silver yawns and smiles broadly. “And now we’re here.”

Ross lets Dwight take the lead in filling in Silver of their own exploits, starting with their most recent trip to the very same area three years previously. Climbing Haramosh had been a real eye-opener for both of them after the relative organisation they were used to with the military in Nepal, but it had left them with a serious love of these black mountains and they’d started saving up for their next trip almost as soon as their feet had hit home turf.

He feels a prickle up the back of his neck and he knows he’s being watched. Without turning to check, he can tell that Jim has his eyes on him, spying in the dark. It feels nothing like a threat but it’s enough to keep him sitting up straight and on his guard. There’s something vaguely unnerving about Jim’s unwavering calm, and stoned or not it feels a lot like Jim isn’t looking at him so much as right through him.

“I knew it! I knew it! Didn’t I say, eh?” Silver roars, clapping his hand down on Dwight’s shoulder then pointing at Ross in happy accusation. “Soon as you mentioned Nepal I knew I had you.”

Ross really doesn’t feel like discussing it now, but George rounds on him quickly.

“You two were in Nepal? Are you a bloody Gurkha, then?”

“Second King Edward’s Own. Been lucky enough to be with them ever since I was fresh out of Sandringham. Dwight’s a doctor but we met out there, and either fate or fortune kept us more or less in the same place as each other since then.”

Silver lets out a long, low whistle but George can’t help himself.

“I knew it. Knew you looked fucking mental since the second I saw you. I heard they chop people up for fun,” he says airily, struggling to focus his eyes across the smoke and flickering flame of the campfire. “Not even afraid of dying, isn’t that right?”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Ross grates. His jaw flexes and hardens as he tries to resist the impulse to bury a screw in the back of George’s hand.

“Careful, Warleggan.” Silver has lost the easy roll in his voice. “He can probably cut you up in your tent faster than you can scream for help.”

Ross feels heat starting to rise in his blood but Silver turns and gives him a slow, knowing wink. It’s apologetic and authoritative all at once and to his surprise Ross feels himself sit back down. He hadn’t even realised he’d moved to stand.

Dwight fixes him with an almost imperceptible nod. “He’s just high,” he whispers. “Ignore him.”

Ross knows it’s best to leave it, but George doesn’t seem to have got the message.

“That’s quite the scar you’ve got there,” he slurs, pointing at Ross’s face. “What happened, man? Did you walk into an ice axe or something?”

“I got shot.”

“Really?” George sits up with wide eyes. “Where?”

“In the face, obviously,” Ben chips in, but Silver just kicks at him and he rolls back onto his side and starts singing again almost immediately.

“Shut up, idiot; go back to sleep.”

“Malaya,” Ross says quietly. He looks down at his hands and to his relief George finally seems to understand that the subject is closed.

“And you, George? How exactly do you fit in?” Will might be nearly halfway through his own whisky bottle but his voice sounds tighter and more alert than ever, and with a flash of thankful solidarity Ross knows Will is pissed off on his behalf.

“I’m the money.” George grins, peeling back his lips slowly until his teeth are shining in the firelight. He laughs loudly, the harsh noise echoing down the valley.

Ross glances back to John. He can’t tell if he looks embarrassed or not, but his voice is a little quieter than before.

“George has…” He coughs and starts again. “This is George’s first trip with us, and he’s funded a large part it. He’s newer to climbing so we’re taking him up to the top, if you like.”

Ross’s jaw falls slack, then tightens again as he swallows hard. He looks from John to Jim, calmly watching the whole scene unfold and wrapped in his impenetrable silence, and then back to George again, not quite sure if he follows.

“Forgive me. You’re… You’re a tourist?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that, no.” George draws himself up defensively, inching closer into the space next to the fire. “I’ve climbed plenty, I just don’t want to waste years of time on small stuff when I could be climbing things like that.” He jerks his thumb toward the summit of Gasherbrum I behind them, and Ross feels his stomach sink.

“It’s a real bummer you couldn’t afford to hire any guys to stay on and help you out.” George snorts at his own joke but Ross just stares him down in silence. “Obviously if you need to use any of our equipment on the way, then be my guest. I imagine at any rate we’ll be up there before you, so the ropes will be there if you can’t manage without.”

“But… you’re kidding, right?” Dwight ignores George’s latest taunt, sounding just as aghast as Ross. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? Exactly what kind of experience do you have, anyway?”

”Fuck experience. This is an experience. Thats what life is all about, am I right?”

Ross is on his feet before he knows it. The screws clank on the rocks as they scatter away under his boots. Silver scrambles up too, but there’s no holding back the tide of Ross’s anger.

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Silver. Going up there, he can’t even begin to comprehend—” Ross pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes black and his other fist clenching tightly in the sleeve of his jacket. “If he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he could put everyone in danger, myself and Dwight included. This isn’t some fucking guided tour. You know fine well that things can get seriously nasty up there and the unavoidable fact is, whether we want to or not, we have to share this summit. You know it, I know it.”

“Look Ross, it isn’t—”

“I can’t believe you’d agree to this, with all your experience. If anything happens to my crew because of something _he_ does,” he drives his finger into Silver’s chest with unnecessary force, but Silver is unmoved and merely sighs tiredly, “I will be holding you personally responsible.”

“I’m accountable for George.”

Jim’s unexpected voice cuts effortlessly through the racket. He doesn’t stand, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off Ross the whole time. Ross blazes round to face him but Jim just looks unperturbed and waves a wisp of smoke from in front of his eyes. He doesn’t say anything else. He only watches Ross trying and failing to contain the anger spilling out of him, and Ross is thrown to find it’s himself who feels like the one who needs to be reprimanded.

“Fine. On your head be it,” he warns, blinking hard. “I’m going to bed.” He snatches up his knife and flicks it closed, jamming it in his pocket before he turns back to George, spitting into the snow at his feet. “And you. You’d do well to stay away from me.”

Dwight stands to join him but Ross waves him down with the flick of his wrist. “I’m sorry,” he mouths quickly, knowing Dwight will understand.

He stalks away quickly towards his own tent, leaving the others to clear up the metaphorical mess. Without the fire the cold pricks at his skin and leaves him shivering, though he can’t be sure if it’s cold or rage that has the upper hand. His tent beckons like a bubble of comfort, intimate with darkness. His fingers fumble with the zip, already halfway to frozen and reluctant to open. He’s just about to close himself inside, crouched on his knees in the yawn of the doorway when he hears it. He’d like to think it could be a trick of the wind, but there’s no mistaking Jim’s voice, smoky and low as it drifts across the ice. 

“Goodnight, Cap.”

When Ross looks up it’s to star blown eyes, blazing blue in the flickering pool of light. He blinks twice and shuts them all away, burying himself in warm down, pulling the sleeping bag around himself until only the narrowest strip of his forehead is exposed. He clenches his fists against his chest and counts ragged breaths until he slides into sleep. 

Something stirs inside, and Ross dreams of the sea. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sappers is the nickname for the Royal Engineers. 
> 
> The Munros are the nickname given to the mountains in Scotland peaking at over 3000m in height, the most famous of which is Ben Nevis. “Bagging” or “Completing a round” is the name given to the act of climbing them all (all 282 of them) - the fastest recorded time being 40 days. 
> 
> The first ascent of Kanchenjunga (a Nepalese mountain, the third highest in the world at 8586m and approx 125km SE of Mount Everest) really was made in 1955 by a group of British climbers - though there’s no record of a John Silver in the summit party ;)
> 
> Mount Chamlang is also in the Nepalese Himalayas, peaking at an elevation of 7319m. 
> 
> Haramosh is a mountain in the Karakoram range located to the north of Skardu town, first climbed in 1958 by an Austrian team after several unsuccessful attempts in previous years.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if there are any historical or cultural inaccuracies spotted here. I’ve done as much research as I can, but information from that area at that time is fairly scarce and I’ve had to take a few artistic liberties through this fic.


End file.
